said what he had come to say from just inside the door.
Lute had been sitting on the sofa, sipping his
drink, a picture of complacency as he warned Hammond
that if he was bent on building a grand jury investigation
around him, he must be prepared to
prosecute his own father as well.
"Of course," Lute had added, smiling, "there is a
way to avoid all this ugliness. If you agree to my way,
everybody gets what he wants and goes home
happy."
His proposal amounted to Hammond selling his
soul to the devil. He had turned down the offer. Needless
to say, Pettijohn hadn't taken kindly to his declination.
Disturbed by the memory, Hammond stepped to
the closet, the only area of the bedroom he hadn't inspected.
Behind the tall, mirrored sliding doors was
an empty safe and empty clothes hangers. Hanging
with the belt still tied was a fluffy white terry-cloth
robe. Matching slippers were still sealed inside their
cellophane packaging. It seemed nothing had been
disturbed.
He slid the doors closed, and that's when he saw
an image reflected in the mirror.
"Looking for something?"
Hammond spun around. "I didn't know anyone
else was here."
"Obviously," Smilow said. "You jumped like
you'd been shot." Throwing a glance over his shoulder
at the bloodstains on the carpet in the parlor, he
added, "Forgive the poor choice of words."
"Come now, Rory," Hammond said, using sarcasm
to conceal the chagrin he felt at having been
caught snooping. "You've never been one to mince
words."
"Right. I haven't. So what the fuck are you doing
here?"
"What the fuck do you care?" Hammond fired
back, matching the detective's angry tone.
"There's tape across the door to keep people out."
"I'm entitled to visit the scene of the crime I'm
going to prosecute."
"But protocol demands that you notify my office
and have someone accompany you."
"I know the protocol."
"So?"
"I was out," Hammond said curtly. Smilow was
right, but he didn't want to lose face. "It's late. I didn't
see the need to drag a cop over here. I didn't touch
anything." He waved the handkerchief still in his
hand. "I didn't take anything. Besides, I thought you
were finished with it."
"We are."
"So what are you doing here? Looking for evidence?
Or planting some?"
The two men glared at one another. Smilow was
the first to get a grip on his temper. "I came here to
think through some of the elements the autopsy
turned up."
In spite of himself, Hammond was interested.
"Like what?"
Smilow turned back into the parlor and Hammond
followed. The detective stood over the bloodstain on
the floor. "The wounds. The trajectory of the bullets
is hard to determine because of all the tissue damage
they caused, but Madison's best guess is that the
muzzle of the pistol was aimed at him from above, at
a distance probably no more than a foot or two."
"The killer couldn't miss."
"He saw to it that he couldn't."
"But he showed up not knowing that Lute had
stroked out."
"He came to kill him, regardless."
"At close range."
"Indicating that Pettijohn knew his killer."
They contemplated the ugly dark stain on the car
pet for a moment. "Something's been bothering me,"
Hammond said after a time. "I just now figured out
what it is. Noise. How do you pop someone with a
.38 without anyone hearing it?"
"Only a few guests were in their rooms. Turndown
service wasn't scheduled to begin until after
six. The housekeepers weren't in the corridor yet.
The shooter could have used a sound suppressor of
some sort, even a jerry-rigged one. Although Madison
didn't find any debris around the area or in the
wounds to indicate that. My guess is that Pettijohn's
boast of virtually soundproof rooms wasn't bogus
like his state-of-the-art video security system."
"Another thought just occurred to me." Smilow
looked across at him and motioned for him to continue.
"Whoever popped him not only knew Lute
well, he also knew a lot about his hotel. It's like the
killer had made himself a scholar on everything Pettijohn
did. Like he was obsessed with him." He probed
Smilow's cold eyes. "Do you see what I'm getting at
here?"
Smilow held his stare for a ten count, but, refusing
to be provoked, nodded toward the door to the suite.
"After you, Solicitor."
TUESDAY
CHAPTER
19
Lute Pettijohn's will stipulated that he be cremated.
As soon as Dr. John Madison released the
body on Monday afternoon, it had been transported
to the funeral home. The widow already had made
the arrangements and taken care of the necessary paperwork.
She declined to view the body before relinquishing
it to the crematorium.
A memorial service had been scheduled for Tuesday
morning, which some regarded as inappropriately
soon, especially in light of the circumstances of
Pettijohn's demise. However, considering the
widow's habitually improper conduct, no one was
surprised by her nose-thumbing of time-honored ritual.
The morning dawned hazy and hot. By ten o'clock,
St. Philip's Episcopal Church was packed to capacity.
The famous and infamous were there, as were those
who had come to gawk at the famous and infamous,
including South Carolina's venerable United States
senator and a movie star who lived in Beaufort.
Some had never met Pettijohn, but deemed themselves
important enough to attend an important man's
funeral. Almost without exception, most of those in
attendance had disparaged the deceased when he was
alive. Nevertheless, they filed into the church shaking
their heads and mourning his tragic, untimely death.
The altar was barely large enough to accommodate
the plethora of floral arrangements.
At exactly ten o'clock, the widow was escorted to
the front pew. She was wearing black from head to
toe, unrelieved by anything except her signature
string of pearls. Her hair had been pulled back into an
unadorned ponytail, over which she wore a wide-brimmed
straw hat that obscured her face. Throughout
the service she kept on dark, opaque sunglasses.
"Is she hiding her eyes because they're swollen
from crying? Or because they're not?"
Steffi Mundell was seated next to Smilow. Her
question caused him to frown. His head was bowed
and he appeared actually to be listening to the opening
prayer.
"Sorry," she whispered. "I didn't know you had a
religious streak."
She remained respectfully silent throughout the
remainder of the service, even though she professed
no religion. She wasn't as interested in the afterlife
as much as she was in the present one. She wished
her ambitions to be realized here on earth. Stars in a
heavenly crown weren't her idea of achievement.
So, tuning out the scripture readings and eulogies,
she used the hour to mull over the pertinent aspects
of the case, specifically how she could use them to
her advantage.
The case had been assigned to Hammond, but it
was she, not him, who had placed a call to Solicitor
Mason last evening. She had apologized for interrupting
his dinner, but when she told him about Alex
Ladd's lie regarding her whereabouts Saturday night,
he thanked her for keeping him apprised. She was
satisfied that the call had earned her a few brownie
points. Taking it one step further, she had assured
their boss that Hammond probably would have given
him this latest update sometime today ... when he got
around to it... intimating that Hammond wouldn't
have given it priority.
After what seemed as long as the eternity the minister
extolled, the memorial service concluded. As
they stood, Steffi said, "Now, isn't that sweet?" From
everyone clustered around Davee Pettijohn to pay
their respects, she singled out Hammond. The widow
embraced him warmly. He kissed her cheek.
"Old family friends," Smilow remarked.
"How good of friends?"
"Why?"
"He seems reluctant to consider her a viable suspect."
They continued to watch as Mr. and Mrs. Preston
Cross also embraced Davee. Steffi had met the couple
only once at a golf tournament. Hammond had introduced
her to his parents not as his girlfriend but as
his co-worker. She had admired Preston, seeing in
him a strong, daunting personality. Amelia Cross,
Hammond's mother, was her husband's direct counterpart,
a small, sweet southern lady who probably
had never expressed an independent opinion in her
life. She probably had never formed an independent
opinion in her life.
"See?" Smilow said. "The Crosses are Davee's
surrogate family since she has none here."
"I guess."
Because of the crowd, it took them several minutes
to get outside. "What have you got against
Davee?" Smilow asked as they made their way toward
his car. "Now that she's no longer on your list
of suspects."
"Who said that?" Steffi opened the passenger door
and got in.
Smilow settled behind the steering wheel. "I
thought Alex Ladd was your suspect of choice."
"She is. But I'm not ruling out the merry widow,
either. Can we have some A.C. please?" she asked,
fanning her face. "Have you confronted Davee with
her housekeeper's lie?"
"One of my men did. It seems that Sarah Birch's
trip to the supermarket that day had completely
slipped their minds."
With exaggerated sincerity, Steffi said, "Oh, I'm
sure that's true."
They drove several blocks before Smilow surprised
her by quietly saying, "We found a human
hair."
"In the suite?"
"On the sleeve of Pettijohn's jacket." He glanced
at her and actually laughed at her expression. "Don't
get too excited. He could have picked it up off the
furniture. It could belong to any guest who has previously
been in that room, or any housekeeper, room
service waiter. Anybody."
"But if it matches Alex Ladd's--"
"You're back to her, I see."
"If it matches her hair--"
"We don't know yet that it does."
"We know she lied!" Steffi exclaimed.
"There could be dozens of reasons for that."
"Now you sound like Hammond."
"The amateur sleuth."
Steffi listened as he told her about finding Hammond
in the hotel suite the night before. "What was
he doing there?"
"Looking around."
"At what?"
"At everything, I guess. A sly insinuation that I
had missed something."
"What were you doing there?"
Somewhat sheepishly he said, "I might have
missed something."
"Testosterone!" she scoffed. "What it does to otherwise
reasonable Homo sapiens.'" After a beat, she
added, "For instance, look how it colors your opinion
of Alex Ladd."
"What's that mean?"
"If Alex Ladd wasn't a noted doctor with a long
list of credentials, if she weren't so educated and attractive
and articulate, so damn poised, if instead she
was a tough girl with teased hair and tattoos on her tits, would you two be this reluctant to apply more
pressure?"
"I won't even honor that question with an answer."
"Then why are you soft-pedaling?"
"Because I can't make an arrest based solely on a
lie about her going to Hilton Head Island. I've got to
have more than that, Steffi, and you know it. Specifically
I've got to place her in that room. I need hard evidence."
"Like a weapon."
"Working on it."
Continuing to study his profile, a slow smile broke
across her face. "Come on, Smilow, what gives?
You've practically got yellow feathers sticking out of
your mouth."
"You'll find out the latest development when
everybody else does."
"When will that be?"
"This afternoon. I've asked Dr. Ladd to come in
for further questioning. Against her solicitor's advice,
she has agreed."
"Without realizing she's walking into a carefully
laid trap." Feeling buoyant again, Steffi laughed.
"When you spring it, I can't wait to see her face."
Her face mirrored complete surprise, just as Hammond's
did.
The way it came about was crazy.
Hammond, Steffi, Smilow, and Frank Perkins
were congregated outside Smilow's office waiting for
Alex to arrive. Steffi complained of leaving a file on
the desk sergeant's counter. Feeling claustrophobic,
Hammond quickly offered to go downstairs and retrieve
it for her.
He left the Criminal Investigation Division on the
second floor and went to the elevators. The doors slid
open. The only occupant was Alex, obviously on her
way to Smilow's office. They looked at each other for